


when jealousy strike (we talk it out)

by orphan_account



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Domestic Fluff, F/M, Fluff, Fluff and Smut, Jealousy, Romantic Fluff, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, mention of anxiety, mention of depression
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-08
Updated: 2019-07-08
Packaged: 2020-06-24 19:59:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,405
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19730740
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: when the guy you've been consistently dating for a little over a year is all over sharon stone in some british show, you kinda feel awful





	when jealousy strike (we talk it out)

**Author's Note:**

> hey, first time writing x reader here so yeah urm. i like comments and stuffs *awkward laugh and awkward shuffle outta ya sight*

“It’s James Corden. Soft, squishy, cute fella who hosts carpool karaoke. I’ll watch him anyway, regardless you’re on it or not.” You shrug.

The mug between your hands clutched closely beneath your nose so you could get a good whiff of sencha green tea. Eyes closed, you hear your year old date snort next to you.

“Do not mock my tea-connoisseur… ness.” You narrow your eyes when you meet his amused ones.

Sebastian Stan. Minus all the glitz and glams of makeup to go under flashy camera lights, is a mundane man with two days old peppery stubbles along his defined jaw, lazy toothy smiles and crinkly skin framing steel-blue eyes. He’s a gorgeous, gorgeous man and you’d be entering another season of existential crisis if you even start wondering how did you land this human.

Aesthetically pleasing but personality the level of shithole (the good kind of shithole cause if it was the bad one, you would have dumped his arse light years ago). Bearably sarcastic with dry humour, laziness that bleed off his shoulders when the weather gets stormy or even mildly cloudy. Self-deprecating outlook, depression and anxiety that hovers over his head like a pair of hell hound, sometimes getting too much, _way_ too much for the both of you to bear at once and hell, of course building a relationship on top of dating that was like walking on a mine field layered upon five other mine fields. But you weren’t pure and pretty, dainty goody two-shoes yourself after all. You have your days and he has his days and sometimes (more often than not) those times collide, but you’ve managed.

By some fucking miracle, it has been a solid year and a few months over.

“Is that even a word?” His lips curl into the beginning of a smirk. He’d abandoned the lip balm again, you note, spotting the cracks stretching, and you wince inwardly. But it strikes something within you. Maybe because it’s your day to be sappy with tea or something stupid like that, or maybe it’s because he, for the first time since you’ve begun dating, mentioned about a TV show he’d be a guest in and you don’t need more words from him to know that he’s trying to ask you if or will you watch him on that.

You kiss him. Surging forward, closing the few inches between the two of you, ankle bending awkwardly in your curled position beside him on the couch, you place a quick peck on his dried lips. “Duh.” You roll your eyes afterwards.

The kiss opens a leeway for him to sneak his arms around your waist and pull you closer, pinning half of his sprawled body against the couch and if you tune out the army of yelling neurons throwing havocs in your fried brain, you can both feel and hear his steady heartbeats against your shoulder blade. He’s warm and the tea is good and you may have woken up on the wrong side of the bed today but everything feels right, now.

*

You’re a good twenty minutes late when you grab the remote and switch on the TV. The screen blinks on and you can’t help but notice, with that frantic mind of yours that your living room is a fucking mess.

It’s been weeks on ends with piled up shifts and covering other people’s arses and tomorrow will be your first off in two months. Three days but still overwhelmingly gratifying in the kind of profession you’re in.

“Huh.” You comment distractedly, slumping on your bean bag after sweeping some old cardigans off it onto the floor.

Sebastian looks good. _Really_ good. Almost too good to be the guy you made out with two days ago, with flour smeared across one cheek under the stench of burnt cake, which you feasted on later of course cause mind you, burnt cake top is nothing compared to shrugging and biting into a weekend old sandwich with yesterday’s expiration date in the fridge. Well, nobody had diarrhea.

And judging by the way Sebastian looks, suited, hair styled back in slick expensive hair stuff, blushing and flirting with Sharon Stone, clearly he’s doing well himself too.

“Huh.”

*

“What you’re doing here?” You grumble, as you swing the door wide open for him to enter.

Second day of leave and you’re a dead meat from all the cleaning and tidying you did yesterday. It’s worth all the aches in your joints. So worth it.

You deposit yourself on the couch, the bean bag you previously occupied abandoned because it’d became a thing where you occupy the couch whenever Sebastian is over so you both could share a seat and well, apparently your distaste at what you watched a day earlier wasn’t enough to shake you off that habit. Yet, you eye that bean bag longingly anyway. More so, when you feel the extra weight sink in next to you, his perfume teasing your nostrils and you scrunch your nose and you frown.

“Am I not allowed here anymore?” He asks jokingly, slumping down, making himself comfortable and you don’t look at him, turning your attention from the bean bag to the TV where Spongebob and Patrick run in circles like idiots. You don’t answer him.

Call it petty, call it jealously, whatever. Today is not your day.

Ten minutes later, the show ends. Two commercials to the next episode (nickelodeon is having a Spongebob marathon, befitting your sulky soul, bless them) after, your phone dings to your right. Your reach for it, blindly. Fingers caressing the freshly dusted tall coffee table beside the couch, thumb scanning for fingerprints and you finally look at the notification when the screen glows bright blue.

 _bad day?_ – Sebastian

You gulp, your frown from two nights ago unmoving on your face as you debate whether to reply or disregard it. But you know you’re not going to reply, and even then, he’s going to type away because- Well, because this is your thing, isn’t it now?

When one cease to verbally communicate or more specifically begins the shameful routine of ignoring the other, the other shall coax them with spams of texts until they finally succumb and ask you to either fucking shut the fuck up or just break down in your arms or just something but not ignoring anymore.

Another ding.

 _wanna order pizza and have sleep over?_ – Sebastian

A third one.

 _Is it okay for me stay?_ – Sebastian

Another and you mute your text thread before you get a splitting headache.

 _is touching okay? physical proximity is yucky or not yucky?_ – Sebastian

You shut your eyes. Fingertips pressing on the screen but you really don’t feel like replying. He’s sweet, but you’re still mad and today is exceptionally wonky from the beginning. You’re mentally exhausted from two months strain of work and trying to balance a relationship on top of that. Your body is aching from yesterday’s punishing cleaning frenzy. Sebastian is a warm mass beside you and yet, you’re scared that when you look at him, he’ll be dressed smart, no stubbles or red blotches where the sun shone on him too harshly on his way over here. No sweatpants and holey oversized t-shirt and you’re scared you’re gonna remember that Corden show all over again and freak out on him. End up throwing litany of comments deliberately designed to hurt him and chase him far away from you. And you don’t want to lose him. Even if all you get from ignoring him is just warmth and an assuring weight of his presence next to you, you don’t want to lose that either.

When you open your eyes you find no more texts after the last one you read, but you can feel the eyes boring into the left side of your head. The couch shifts. He moves. You clench your jaw and look straight ahead at the plasma screen embedded within the wall . Squidward is playing a clarinet. Fingers poke softly at the side of your thigh. Spongebob is asleep on his bed. You take a deep breath and hold it in, when the mass shift and you feel the warmth spike up in temperature, shoulders brushing and he’s so stupidly daring to mush his side against yours. Bold of him to assume that you’re not going to jump out of your skin.

And he’s right. You don’t.

Instead, you break.

Hot tears brim at the edge of your eyelids, threatening to spill and you swallow thickly a number of times, blinking blurrily at the yellow, blue, pink blobs on the screen. _What the fuck is wrong with me_ , you scold yourself.

But he’s, “Missed you” is louder than your own disappointment and anger and just like that, you let the weight fall and allow yourself to lean into him. Let him hold you both up for the world today. Let him do the heavy lifting since he’s so adamant about it. Let him hold you close and press a firm kiss to your temple and breathe you in because for some weird reasons he wants you and you’re too lucky to have him for yourself.

*

He orders in pepperoni and you press for another being all veggie, just because. And of course, you ask to add pineapple to that horror because he’s soft for you today and you’re a bastard who won’t miss that upper hand, while you have it.

“I saw how you were all over Sharon Stone.” You snort when he teases you for gushing over Eddie Redmayne as the fantastic Newt Scamander.

He munches through his retort, making odd sounds when the hot cheese burns his tongue and you just snort at him once more, letting him deal with that mess by himself. “I just cleaned yesterday. So if you drop anything anywhere, you’re picking them up without leaving even a smudge.” You warn, seriously.

He hisses around his mouthful, surprising you with a pair of greasy lips against your cheek when you weren’t expecting and you smack him around his head, grinning when he yelps in pain.

The anger bled out faster than you expected. The jealously is still lingering and it’s not like you’re hiding it away, considering you just hinted at it. You don’t hold a PhD when it comes to relationships but for starter, even if it hurts, you know that it’s always better to talk it out rather than beating around the bush. Sides, losing a year worth of effort and truthfully, probably the only other person in the universe who can put up with you over miscommunication or leakage in that department is just too lousy of a reason to vouch for. So you don’t find yourself hesitating when it comes to ‘talking out the stuffs’. Now, all you’re waiting for is his response which he doesn’t seem to be bothering with at this second.

Maybe a stronger punch, then.

“I don’t like seeing you all over another person. Woman or man. It- Well. I’m not comfortable.” You frown at the niffler on the screen. Ears ringing with the boldness of your confession.

You hear all movement cease beside you. A loud swallow and you stare unblinkingly at the screen, focus gone with the wind in exchange for anticipation and thundering anxiety. Was it too straight forward?

Another loud swallow. “Jealous?” His voice is carefully controlled but you can still here the rasp within.

You shrug. Unclench your jaw and you open your mouth for another bite of the half eaten slice in your hand. The flashy spells of Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them on screen is loud amidst the silence that settle within your home. You start to fidget but you forbid yourself from looking at him.

You’re just beginning to follow the movie’s plot when he interrupts you, worming both arms around your waist and pulling you until you’re fit snug between his outstretched legs on the carpeted floor. Your crossed ankles coming lose from his man-handling and your heart is hammering in your chest from the lack of warning but you’re not too unfamiliar with this position to get nervous about it. He’s done this before.

Chin atop your head as he holds you close and rock you side to side, just an inch, almost subtle to notice but you’re both rocking into each other anyway. It’s not sexual, just comfort and fondness and you’re both very content from all the food and lounging and it’s just nice. _Very_ nice.

“It was for show. I treated it like I do acting. Wasn’t thinking about it, just went with the flow.” He murmurs a while after. “Sorry.” He says, kissing the top of your head. You close your eyes to the feel of that, leaning more into him as he holds your tighter, closer.

An hour after, when you’re picking after pizza boxes, remnants and empty soda cans, he nudges your shoulder and grins, “I think you handle the jealous girlfriend better than I would, as a boyfriend.”

You blink and freeze, empty pepsi can in one hand while the other in the middle of closing the lid over a half finished pie. “Boyfriend?” Your eyebrows go sky high, because oddly, neither of your have ever spoken about this before. One year and few months into dating and all you’ve done is dub him as ‘date’ in your mind and sure, you call it a relationship but the title feels strange on your tongue.

He rivals your eyebrows with his own. Steel-blue eyes regarding you, unamused, and you swallow because sometimes he wears this look in the bedroom and you feel weird tingly sensation starts creeping up your spine now. “Then, what are we?”

You face shifts through various expression, unable to find an appropriate answer for his question because heck, if you both weren’t boyfriend-girlfriend, then what the fuck is it? But something about the title still doesn’t seem right. Not… adequate. Or defining enough.

Just not precise.

“Well,” You shrug exaggeratedly.

Amusement licks at his lips and if you know him right, he’s going to burst into a laughter in two seconds.

And he does.

“We’re so dumb.” He snorts inelegantly, clutching at his stomach, head thrown back.

He’s beautiful, you think. Smiling fondly until he got tired of laughing and straddles the armrest of your couch, the other pair of your empty pepsi can clutched loosely in his right hand, resting atop his thigh.

“What do you want to call us?” He asks, rough voice, a reverberating low timbre as you cradle his head in your hands, brushing strands of hair behind his ear. Your own collection of empty can and pizza box, deposited on the floor in favour of holding your… well, boyfriend now. Or –

“Partner?” You tilt your head curiously, receiving a blinding toothy grin as he moves forth to slot his head under your chin. Kissing the top of his head is like a knee-jerk reaction as you hug him tight then proceed to squeeze him and choke him with your arm until he wheezes, calling for release.

You sprint the moment you let him lose. Two steps at once, upstairs and you hear another pair thundering behind you but you soldier on, slamming the door to your room shut on his face. “We gotta clean up!” You yell, between bubbling laughter. “I call pause until we clean up and then we can restart.” You bargain, breath shuddering out of you in short pants.

He agrees but once the door opens he throws all caution into the air and tickles you until you’re begging for mercy.

You’re turned in his strong arms, facing him, echoes of giggles fading into the background when he tilts your chin up and kisses you deep. Licking into your mouth and brushing tongues and he breathes into you, breathes you and you breathe him in respond and for a brief moment, everything is close to resemble perfection.

*

“Where’re you bunking?” You ask. Rinsing your toothbrush as you cup your hand for water to collect and rinse your mouth one last time.

When he stays over at your place, he’s rarely consistent. Granted that you do the same at his because sleeping on the bed is apparently too mainstream for your relationship. A pair of redundant Cheetos the both of you are, to be honest.

He shrugs, spitting into the sink, and doing his own routine as you wipe your mouth with your towel. He’s stayed enough times at your place to have his own drawer of clothing and yours at his. It began with exhaustion really. One day he knocked at the crack of dawn when you’re leaving to work claiming your place was closer to where he’s coming from and you were too in rush to bother welcoming him with a red carpet. So you jammed your spare set of keys into his hand and texted him some what-to-dos but mostly, what-not-to-dos at your place once you’ve reached your working place, forgetting all about it until you returned home and found him lazing on the couch with his day old clothes and a bag of Dorito on his lap.

The first time both of you shared a bed, it was at his place and you were too asleep to notice he even moved you onto it, waking up with hazy memories of yelling Bohemian Rhapsody at the top of your lungs to his ‘Galileo, Galileo ’ and your cheek was creased from being pressed onto his forearm and sure, he complained about his numb right arm for almost the entire day after but you were feeling unexplainably too generous that day to smack him for that.

“I’m a bit horny tonight.” He leers at you, bend over the sink and chin still wet from rinsing the toothpaste off his mouth.

You toss the towel at him. “I’m not but I don’t mind rubbing you off one.” You shrug, feigning nonchalance when really you’re thrilling from the way you both are addressing sex between you two. So casually and never mind that its not sexy or romantic it just sounds like a pair of old couple, is all.

He snorts, hanging the towel over its hanger and closing the bathroom door behind him. He steps right up to your face where you’re seated at the edge of the bed, smoothing moisturiser over your heels and you eye him flatly when he’s close enough for his crotch to smother your face.

Your lips wobble threateningly after a few second of strained silence because he’s in one of his mood where’s making himself stupid and gross to get you to laugh and you succumb, you do. Just like you always do anyway. What’s the point of putting fight to this maniac of yours anyway.

You easily jump on the bandwagon, playing his game to his tune as you pull him by his hips until you’re mouthing at the zipper, feeling smug when his cock starts straining against the material and really, it’s too easy to pretend like you both are made for each other because he gives back as good as he gets and you, vice versa and it’s beautiful, frankly.

Especially on nights like this when the game falls, dragging the pretence down with it and you don’t realise between which kiss and which touch that all humour shifted into heat and passion and suddenly his eyes is gazing down at you heatedly as he pushes himself into you because despite what you claimed of ‘not feeling it’ you’re clearly too attuned to him to vibrate when he plucks the cord and just like that he owns you and he claims you. Kisses after kisses, lips and tongues and mouths against one another. His body hot and pleasant on top of yours, skin dragging tantalizingly slow and fast accordingly to the rhythms he sets, heavy weight bearing down until you’re drowning in pleasure and he swallows each one of your gasps just like you kiss his shut eyes when he finally comes, swearing something and collapsing into the crook of your neck and you hold him there because you want to believe he’s there. Because sometimes he feels too good to be real and especially during times like this you just had to hold him and be sure.

And you do. You hold him and you’re assured.


End file.
